


There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

by acornsandravens



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acornsandravens/pseuds/acornsandravens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of the story of Hero and Leander in an AU where Arya and Gendry are strangers who meet in Braavos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

**Author's Note:**

> THERE ARE SLIGHT SUICIDAL/SELF HARM THEMES IN THIS FIC. 
> 
> Please read with caution if you're easily triggered.
> 
> Pretty vague spoilers past season 3/AFFC.

She thought of her family often, though it was like salt in a skinned knee whenever she did. She would tighten her fingers around Needle’s hilt as much for comfort as protection and remember her brother Jon and the way he used to tug her braids.

She thought of the sigh of steel when the blade had fallen and taken Ned Stark’s head.

She thought with a shudder of what they’d done to her brother and Grey Wind, as though killing the King in the North hadn’t been enough.

She thought of her mother’s beautiful long hair, matted with mud and weeds and caught in the current of a river, swirling in the water like blood.

Tonight she sat with her feet hanging over the edge of the rooftop and thought of her brother Bran.

He’d always been better at climbing than she was, but he was a better climber than anyone, and she’d certainly remembered enough to climb this wall even with its lack of holds for her hands and feet. She wished the two of them could have climbed up here together. He would have liked seeing the city from here, with the sails of ships in the distance and the canals sparkling under the stars. He might not have liked going to bed with an empty belly and shivering in the darkness, but perhaps it wouldn’t feel so cold if she wasn’t alone.

But Bran was crippled and probably dead across the sea and she was on a rooftop in Braavos by herself and it didn’t matter, all the wishing and remembering in the world wouldn’t change it, she reminded herself, curling tighter to conserve her warmth.

This part of the city was quiet at night, far from the bustle of the dockside taverns and brothels that attracted the sailors and drunkards or the fine inns that held the more wealthy merchants come to trade. This was only a little corner in a forgotten slum where no one noticed her and no one would have cared if they had. The doors were locked tight and the torches extinguished, and she watched the occasional pair of bravos pass in the streets below, idly wondering which of them would die tonight.

Her belly grumbled and Arya sighed, wishing she had saved some of the stale bread she’d eaten earlier for now, when her stomach’s protests would keep her awake all night. But there’d barely been enough for one meal, anyway. Sleep would make the morning come quicker and quiet the pains in her belly. She found a place farther away from the edge of the roof and tucked herself into a small ball. At least the city was beautiful, she decided, willing all thoughts of food and family out of her mind and staring out over it while she slipped off to sleep.

Past the Titan, on a craggy reach above the sea, a light burned bright.

 

They called the city the Bastard Son of Valyria, so he supposed it was more fitting a city for bastards than most. He’d known no more of Valyria than he had his own father when he’d been sent off across the sea like a barrel of salted  pork in the hull of a stinking ship, so he couldn’t say if the son favored the father or not, but Braavos wasn’t so bad. He liked smithing, and the worst part of the job was hauling charcoal up the side of the little bluff that housed the forge or when the sea winds blew the ash up into his eyes.

But it was quiet here, and he found that after the endless chaos of Flea Bottom that his place on the rock was peaceful. Hammering the metal, folding it, heating it, and shaping it was almost spiritual, the repetition like a penance for a sin he wasn’t sure he’d committed.

There was little enough to distract him from his work up here. His master spent his time in the city or on one of the pleasure barges and Gendry didn’t mind the solitude of that fact, either.

It was just the nights that bothered him, really. He never slept well on his cot, and so far from the city it was dark even with the sea reflecting the moonlight. He preferred the orange glow of hot coals and heated steel, and so it was that he often worked long after dark, hammering and pounding to keep his mind and his hands busy, to keep the black from pressing in around him and trapping him on the column of stone beneath his feet.

Arya sidled up alongside the old sailor and stood next to him for a moment, looking out over the strait. She’d come to the docks hoping to snatch a dropped fish before the gulls got it, but today’s catch was small and few of the fishermen carried baskets full enough to overflow. When the tide went out she could try to catch some crabs or dig for clams on the sandbars, she decided. She could fill her pockets and swim back before the water rose again.

“What’s over there?” she asked suddenly, and the old man jumped, threw his hand over his heart and cursed under his breath in Myrish, but Arya only pointed up at the tall column of rock.

“Trees, looks like to me.” He drawled, spitting into the water before he stalked off, apparently recovered enough from his surprise to curse again before he left.

“Trees don’t build fires,” she told the gulls, but they didn’t answer her.

It was late afternoon when the tide lowered, and she took off her shoes and strapped them to her back alongside Needle and swam the short distance to a promising looking spit of land. Barefoot, she stomped her feet against the cool wet sand to show the small air holes left by the clams and when she found one she’d drop to her knees and dig it out with her hands.

She’d stuffed her pockets and the front of her tunic full of them by the time the water was lapping at her ankles. It was nearly dark, and she turned to look back at the city. She didn’t care to meet with any young bravos on the streets, and they’d certainly be out by now, spoiling for a fight. She’d rather have her supper in peace and there was an accessible looking shore at the rock closest to her. The rock where the trees built fires, she thought, rolling her eyes.

It was cooler now, and she felt chilled when she walked out of the sea, weighted down by wet clothes and the bounty of low tide. It was dark enough she almost missed the narrow path up the side of the rocky cliffside, but it was wide enough for a mule to pass and so it was also wide enough for her not to wander off over the precipice, too, even at night.

The smell of fire and hot coals filled her nose. And trees-- she’d forgotten what leaves smelled like, a woodsy smell against the salt spray of the sea where it crashed around her. She climbed higher and higher until the path leveled and the sand became coarse and sharp with pumice. She had to stop and put her shoes back on to keep from cutting her feet.

There was a house here but its windows were shuttered and dark. She could see the place she wanted, all the way at the top, surrounded by trees to protect it from the buffeting wind that whipped her hair around her face.

Its light was a beacon against the purple sky.

 

He’d stopped to mop the sweat from his brow when he’d heard the crunching of gravel.

“I’ll have it done by morning,” he called, expecting it was his master come to check his day’s progress. “It’s the bloody beak, I can’t get the curve of it—“

His eyes were used to staring into flames, so outside the forge it was pitch black to him but he could tell immediately that the small figure in front of him was not who he’d been expecting. He blinked, once, twice, thrice, and tried to figure out what a woman would be doing up here but he couldn’t find a reason. “If you’ve come to steal my helm you’ll have to come back, it isn’t finished yet.”

She stepped closer and the first thing he noticed was her scowl.

The second was that her clothes were wet and sandy and clung to her like a second skin.

He’d heard tales of mermaids but he didn’t think mermaids carried swords, and this girl—woman, he corrected himself as his cheeks heated-- carried a blade slung over her shoulder.

“I’m not here to steal,” she countered, and he realized that he must have used the Common Tongue instead of his awful high Valyrian or his even worse Braavosi because she’d responded in like. “I saw the light.”

His eyes dipped again, to the soft swell of a breast beneath thin red material. “You swam?”

“It’s not so far. I was digging clams.” she explained, pulling one out of her pocket and holding it up for him to see. “I’ve enough for two, if you’d like.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d like, but he brought her a pail of clean water and a shovel full of coals for her clams all the same and when they’d cooked she brought a trencher of them to the table.

They wrestled the small bits of meat out of their open shells while she stared at him and he tried not to look back at her. She had a piercing gaze and he felt like she could see clear through him when she did that. “Where are you from?”

He shrugged. “The Crownlands.”

“Which city?” she pressed.

“Does it matter?”

“It could.” she said, a vein of iciness in her tone.

“King’s Landing,” he said, figuring she might guess from his accent anyway, if she was familiar enough. “Where are you from, then, if it matters so much?”

“North,” was all she said, plunking an empty shell on the table between them. “How’d you wind up here from King’s Landing?”

“I was sold to a Tyroshi armorer looking for an apprentice.”

She eyed him again. “Sold?”

“People tend to look the other way for a bit of silver. He might have sold me to a slaver. I was lucky. There’s worse things can happen to an orphan boy from Flea Bottom than ending up here making helms for fancy lords.”

“Do you make swords for fancy lords?”

He thought he must be imagining the teasing way she said it and the sparkle in her eye from the wine. “Some,” he told her. “But there’s better than the likes of me if you want a Braavosi blade.”

“Can you wield one?”

“Braavosi?”

“Any.”

“Never tried. I prefer my hammer. You finished with that?” he asked, and she shoved the trencher of empty shells towards him.

“What’s your name?” she asked, when he came back inside.

“Gendry. I suppose it’s too much to hope to know yours?”

“It is,” she agreed. “You can call me Cat, everyone here does.”

“Were you planning on swimming home tonight, Cat?”

“I’d thought I’d sleep on the shore and cross at low tide in the morning.”

He wasn’t sure why he offered, really, to this odd stranger who had turned up on his doorstep, but he wasn’t going to let her sleep on the ground. He knew his courtesies.  _He_  could sleep on the ground.

“I’ve got work to finish. You can take the cot, if you think you can sleep through the sound of me hammering.”

“Where will you sleep?” she asked, glancing at him with a look he didn’t care to interpret.

“I’ll work,” he told her. “You sleep.”

She disappeared outside and came back with most of the dried sand shaken out of her clothing and crawled beneath the woolen blanket on his bed. While he let the metal heat she watched him from the corner, silent, and when next he looked up her eyes were closed.

He’d just set the helm aside when she spoke. “It’s beautiful.”

“I thought you’d gone to sleep.”

“I wanted to watch you,” she admitted. “Why do you work at night?”

“I don’t sleep well, most nights.”

“It’s no wonder. This cot is harder than some roofs I’ve slept on, you know.” she smiled, and he felt a dangerous lick of heat strike through him at the way her lips curved. That was the first true smile he’d seen from her, warm and languid and looking up at him from his bed, the bed where he’d spent more sleepless nights than he could recall.

“Do you sleep on many roofs?”

“Too many. People don’t look up much. They look down in Braavos, so they don’t fall in a canal I’d imagine. You can see your forge from the rooftops. I did.”

“I imagine you can see half way to Lorath from a height.”

“Not quite that far, but long enough to see the ships coming if you care to search out the sails. It makes you feel small, looking so far in any direction.” she glanced over at him again. “But I think you’ve got the better view from over here.”

“It’s a bit lonely up here, though.”

“It’s lonelier over there.” she told him wistfully.

He’d like to know what her story was, how she’d found herself here. He hadn’t heard many northerners talk, but she didn’t sound like any of them he’d heard. She spoke like a lady and Gendry thought the tale of how a highborn lady from the North wound up sleeping on rooftops in Braavos must have been a sad one, but he knew it wasn’t a story she was like to tell any stranger.

She went quiet again while he splashed the soot off his hands and face, and again he thought she’d fallen asleep.

Again, he was wrong.

“You can have your bed,” she told him when he went to make a place on the floor. “I can sleep on a floor as easy as roof, you know.”

“I can sleep on a floor as easy as a bed.”

“Don’t be stupid, come on.” she said, holding up the corner of her blanket. His blanket, he corrected, his blanket, she was under his blanket on his bed looking at him with her sad grey eyes.

He was stupider than even he’d thought because he put his back to her and forced his eyes closed, stubbornly refusing. Gendry heard an exasperated sigh and the sound of her settling back down into the mattress.

He fell asleep to the sound of her breathing.

 

He should have known better, really. She was a stranger and she had a sword and she was at least as stubborn as he was.

Arya wasn’t sure why she’d stayed, but she had. She wasn’t sure why she even cared if he slept on the floor, either, but she did.

Seeing him made her more desperately lonely than any night spent by herself. She felt like a half-starved animal, desperate and made bold. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt that way, but it was the first time she’d ever felt this way for comfort and companionship, and she supposed that’s what made her do it.

She’d called  _him_  stupid but she didn’t know what word to use for sneaking up on a strange man she barely knew while he slept, but the worst of it was she wasn’t sure she cared anymore.

He stirred at the slightest sound but she was used to moving quietly, and he didn’t wake when she left his bed. Arya wrapped the woolen blanket around her shoulders while she stood over him and breathed in his scent mingled with the smell of charcoal and iron, a scent of sourwine and sage and male sweat.

“Gendry,” she whispered, and watched his eyes open in confusion and darken in response to finding her staring down at him. He had beautiful eyes, even when he scrunched them at her disapprovingly.

He didn’t say anything when she sank to the floor next to him and spread the blanket over both of them. It was like the warmth of the smithy finally touched her skin, like the chill of the water had finally left her bones, and she turned towards the heat of his body.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled, voice still thick from sleep.

“I don’t know.” she admitted, resting her forehead against his chest and feeling him tense next to her. “But I’m tired of doing it alone.”

“Cat…”

“Don’t call me that, it’s not really my name. Don’t call me anything, please.”

“I can’t—“

“Please. Just let me lie next to you. You’ll never see me again after tonight, I promise, it won’t matter, I won’t tell anyone, you don’t have to… do anything. Just let me sleep here.”

It was madness, all of it, that to feel safe she wanted to sleep next to him. Maybe a part of her hoped he’d prove himself as vile and twisted as the rest of the world, but he didn’t. She was so tired, tired of fighting, tired of feeling and thinking and being and she suddenly understood why he worked through the night.

He didn’t touch her; he didn’t try to kiss her or force himself on her or even push her away. It seemed he didn’t even dare to move, but he let her press close against him and if he felt her tears through his shirt or heard her breath catch he didn’t say anything.

For a few hours before dawn broke she didn’t feel quite so hollow.

 

Gendry woke with a dead arm and his blanket tucked tight over him. She was gone, Cat, whoever she was, the girl who swam across the sea to chase lights and didn’t want him to call her anything at all. He wondered for several long moments if he’d only dreamt her. Maybe he’d finished the wine and finally given into exhaustion and wound up on his floor, but he knew she was real and he wasn’t sure which reality was worse.

On the table facedown was half of a clamshell, picked clean and forgotten. He held it in his hand and turned it over, thinking of her words last night when she’d slid next to him.  _You’ll never see me again, I promise._

The outside of the shell was white and smooth, and the inside was purple, vivid as a fresh bruise. He shoved it deep into his pocket and followed her foot prints down to the shore and stared across to the docks. The water was brilliantly blue this morning, like lapis lazuli, and he sat down in the sand with his toes in the surf and wondered whose roof she would sleep on that night.

 

The first thing he learned about her was that she was a terrible liar. A month later she was back again, this time with empty pockets. It was hours after low tide and the water was still pooling at her feet when she stood in his doorway that evening, no convenient excuse for finding herself there again.

His fires had burned low as he’d been staring at a particularly interesting shell he’d taken to keeping on his table, but he could see her and she could see him and the darkness didn’t seem to matter. He’d know the shape of her body with his eyes closed, he thought, as often as it came to mind.

Next he learned that her lips tasted like tears but sweeter, somehow, and that he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything. Her clothes left a puddle where she dropped them and his hands left soot marks on her skin where he touched her, until they were clean and she was smudged grey.

Her skin tasted of salt when he let his mouth explore the curves of her he’d longed to touch, her sighs shattering the stillness he’d come to know. He wondered how he had ever stood the quiet, how the sounds of the sea crashing against stone had not driven him to madness long before now.

With her arms around his shoulders and her lips against his she’d stopped him with a touch of her fingers to his cheek.

“Arya. My name is Arya.” she’d whispered, and then he’d been inside of her and it had been as unstoppable as the tides.

And like the tides, she always came back again.

He spent their nights together learning her and fighting back the fear of letting her go again in the morning. She’d made him a greedy man, she made him want for things he shouldn’t, things he hadn’t ever considered before she’d come seeking his company and his touch. He fucked her desperately and she held him tight in her arms and neither of them was lonely for a time, but it couldn’t last and they knew it.

That only made it more desperate, sharper. He’d never known anything could feel so sweet as she did wrapped tight around him, hot and slick and gasping his name with her hands tangled in his hair.

 

The last time Arya came to him she’d worn black and crawled into his bed like a shadow. “I’m not supposed to be here,” she’d whispered against his ear.

She wasn’t ever supposed to be there, but it didn’t matter now. All he could think of was that she was there  _then_  and that he’d missed the feel of her and the sound of her and he wanted to hold tight to her and not give her back to the waves again. “Why not?”

“I’m dead,” she told him.

“You don’t feel dead.” Her heart still beat heavy under his hand and the pulse in her throat jumped when he tasted it, her breath came faster and perfectly alive against his lips when he kissed her.

“I am,” she insisted. “I’m not Arya anymore.”

“Were you ever?”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s the only thing I ever really was.”

“You were mine,” he said bitterly, and he knew it was true. She wouldn’t have come back if she’d never been his, and that’s what clawed at his chest the fiercest.

Neither of them slept that night, and after they’d taken their fill of one another he’d lain by her side and listened to the murmur of her voice when she’d told him she thought she might love him, and her silence when he told her that he loved her too.

Whoever she really was.

When the sun came up she rose and pulled on the black robes she’d worn. In the morning light they looked stark and harsh against her skin, but she made a beautiful ghost all the same.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t beg but he did at the last, when she’d pulled open the door and the reality of a lifetime without her came slamming down over him. “Don’t go. Stay. We’ll leave here if you like, anywhere you want to go, and we’ll go. I can keep you safe.” he had rambled, looking for the right words that it would take to convince her.

_I can make you live_ , he thought.

“I have to go, Gendry.”

“I don’t want to be alone again,” he’d said, but that wasn’t the whole truth. It wasn’t being alone he feared but the absence of her. He could have been happy alone, he thought, if he’d never known her. “I don’t want you to leave me.”

“I’m not leaving you,” she promised, a lie told with a caustic kiss. “You’ll remember me, Gendry, when no one else does.”

He held onto her tight for a moment longer, but he knew he couldn’t make her stay. “I’ll look for your face in every crowd I see until the day I die, Arya.”

She smiled up at him sadly, with tears in her eyes. “So will I.”

And then she was gone.

 

He stood on a bluff over the sea that night, watching darkness creep into the sky. He held a shell in his palm, white on one side and bruised on the other. He should have dropped it into the sea but his fingers tightened around it until the edge was sharp against his skin and it was all he could feel, the presence of her left behind here, with him.

The water beneath him was blue and for a moment he wondered if it would feel cold or if it would feel like anything at all, pressing in over his head endlessly while he sank to the bottom. But behind him, against the stars, the fire of his smithy shone bright and he turned towards it, shell clutched tight against his palm.

Light spilled over him as he stood in the doorway of the place where he had once loved her, warm and brilliant, and he knew it was a light that would never stop burning as long as this rock rose from the sea.   _Let her see it_ , he prayed.

_Let her remember._


End file.
